Seven Days of Spoby
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: A one-week Tumblr writing challenge for one-shots based on Spoby. Includes RomCom, period piece, supernatural romance, and more.
1. RomCom: Win A Date With Julian Morris

_**A/N:** Based on a Tumblr "Seven-Day Spoby Challenge." I missed Day 1, but I'm going to try to do the rest of them. But I'm not going to promise anything, just in case! Especially because this was supposed to be "ficlet" length and look where that got me. _

_**TODAY'S PROMPT:** Spoby portrayed in a classic or new romantic comedy. _

_**MY TWIST:** I decided to do an AU piece based off of the movie Win A Date With Tad Hamilton. For those unfamiliar, the movie is about a girl who wins a promotional contest to go on a date with a famous actor. The actor develops actual feelings for the girl. Her best friend is a guy, and he gets insanely jealous._

* * *

**WIN A DATE WITH JULIAN MORRIS**

Goddamn _Black's Anatomy_. Goddamn fan baiting, female pandering, network seducing TV dramas that flaunted themselves like the ratings whores that they were.

There was nothing special about the stupid show. There really wasn't. Half the cast couldn't act to save their lives, and the other half were being wasted on a subpar script with enough plot holes to play bean bag toss. The only appeal, really, was the fact that the show's frontrunners had somehow managed to buy the most sought-after male model-turned-actor of the current generation. He was the most eligible bachelor in America, according to _Forbes Magazine_; a fact of which Toby was aware_ only_ because of Spencer's and Hanna's mindless babbling since the issue had come out three months ago. They had practically drowned the cover with all the drooling they'd done.

Stupid Julian Morris. Who cared that he had been the face of Calvin Klein since he was sixteen? Or that he had landed the role of a lifetime in that stupid war movie seven years ago that had set the stage for his budding theatrical career?

So he talked like Hugh Grant, and all those other pretentious pretty boys from across the pond. So he regularly participated in charity events and was known specifically for his semi-monthly trips to Guatemala to read to the blind and build schools in the ghetto. So what if he had a philanthropic persona so unprecedented that even Mother Theresa would have lined up for his autograph?

Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

Toby could give two shits, really. But his opinion was clearly that of the minority – the fact of the matter was that Dr. Wren Kingston was the most popular character on prime time television, and Julian Morris, respectively, the most popular actor. Ratings continued to break records, and each actor in the primary ensemble cast was paid a generous commission of a three-quarter million an episode. If Julian Morris was such a goddamn good person, what did he need with all that money, anyway?

The producers had been rolling in dough ever since the pilot. The money-hungry motivation behind the show was the most glaringly obvious thing in the world, in Toby's opinion. But Spencer and Hanna insisted that there was so much more soul to it than that.

Yeah, okay. Maybe if they were talking about Lord Voldemort's soul. Hacked into pieces to achieve fame and immortality. That sounded about right.

Because if ordinary profits were not enough, their most recent publicity stunt had certainly caught people's attention. 'Win a Date with Julian Morris.' Please. Like any event with Julian Morris was little more than a glorified photo op. Toby was sure that the poor girl who won wouldn't even get a word in edgewise. As if _who_ they were, as an everyday, average Joan, could _possibly _merit two seconds of that man's undivided attention.

So when Spencer had actually won the stupid thing, there had been a tiny portion of morbid satisfaction bubbling in the core of his stomach, caught somewhere between the frustration and jealousy that resided nearby. Part of him wanted her to see the truth about Julian – see that he was merely a pretty face, not a superhero. Oh, yes. He was sure that after the entire ordeal, Spencer would be disgusted at the man she had sipped cocktails and broken bread with. She would see him for who he truly was.

But Toby's luck never panned out that way. Of course not. Instead of putting all of his demons on display, Julian had fooled her in person just as well as he fooled everyone behind the cameras. And if one date wasn't enough, the fact that he asked her on a second – and a third – and actually _moved_ to Rosewood to be closer to her – was just about all the bad karma Toby could bear.

It wasn't fair. Toby knew things about Spencer that Julian would never think to pay attention to. He knew all about her borderline-psychotic addiction to coffee, and the fact that if she didn't get at least two cups in the morning, she was an absolute nightmare for the rest of the day.

He knew that she thrived on competition. When she thought for a moment at the end of high school that she might actually lose the role of valedictorian to Andrew Campbell, she had spent an entire weekend writing her commencement speech anyway, with every intention of showing it to the principal in an effort to persuade him to reconsider his verdict. And when she found out she had the honor after all, no coercion necessary, she re-wrote the goddamn thing seventeen times anyway until it felt absolutely perfect.

He knew that she had a heart so big that it was a wonder there was room for it in that tiny body of hers. She tutored children at the local foster care center in her spare time under the pretense that they weren't getting adequate education. And sure, that was part of it. But Toby knew it was more about connecting with the kids and establishing a meaningful place for herself in the world. Making a difference in someone's life and acting as a mentor and a confidante. Helping them build the confidence to tackle future obstacles and giving them the proper tools to traverse adversity.

And he knew that she always smiled in spite of her pain, because she didn't like other people knowing that she was hurting. It was a feeble sort of smile that took an immense amount of effort to plaster onto her pretty face, and he knew that it expended just about all the energy she had in her reserves – but she did it anyway, to spare her loved ones the burden of her hardships.

But yet, the fact that Julian had noticed that she preferred white wine over red was somehow the most endearing thing in the world, and him taking her on an impromptu trip to Rome in his private jet was, quote-unquote, 'the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.'

Toby could do those things in his sleep, if he had the money and the means. They were lavish but they reeked of impersonal grandiosity. What Julian should have really focused on was the fact that she_ only_ liked white wine over red because Melissa had once tossed a glass of Merlot on her periwinkle gown for junior prom. Toby didn't know all of the specifics, only because Spencer was embarrassed to rehash them, but he knew the gist: Melissa's boyfriend at the time, Ian, had a thing for Spencer, and made no attempt to hide it. Melissa was just as competitive as Spencer and infinitely more jealous, and it had made for a messy confrontation.

Spencer had spent hours thereafter locked in her bathroom at home, crying and trying to clean the stain from the silky fabric, but to no avail. She never did make it to the dance. And Toby had been the one that noticed her absence and had left to find her, spending the most emasculating night of his life experimenting with club soda, baking powder, and a toothbrush to help remove the stain. But all threats to his manhood be damned, he had done it because he cared about her. Where was Julian then?

And Rome? Please. Spencer had lifelong fantasies of traveling to Paris and The Louvre, _not_ Rome, and had specifically studied French all through high school in preparation for when the day came.

And to make matters even worse – the goddamn icing on the whole fucking cake – the bastard had had the audacity to ask if he could buy the rocking chair off of him. The rocking chair that Toby had spent hours on, painstakingly measuring and cutting the wooden slats to perfection for – the one he had been building as a gift for her birthday. Julian-Douchebag-Morris wanted to give him _money_ to take credit for making it.

He shouldn't have said yes, but he did. Maybe it was partially out of defeat. Maybe a bit of it had to do with the fact that if Toby, himself, gave it to her, it would raise more questions than he felt like answering. Maybe it was a little of both. Either way, he had ripped up the check a half hour later and forced a strained smile at her birthday party that night when Julian unveiled what was allegedly his own handiwork.

In truth, the whole thing made Toby sick. And if this was how things were going to be from now on, he wasn't sure he could bear it. It was both a blessing and a curse that Hausman's Architecture had called to offer him a job that would send him across the country.

He would miss her terribly, of course. She was a part of him. Being without her would be like reaching out to touch a phantom limb. She was forever imbedded in his soul.

But perhaps this was the fresh start he needed. He had been clinging to her for far too long, despite the fact that her affections were always directed elsewhere.

Maybe it had been _him_ living in the fantasy world all along, not the girls with their TV show. Maybe he was just as guilty of putting someone on a pedestal as they were with Julian.

Either way, he wasn't sure how much more he could take. It was like his heart had been ripped from his chest, covered in paper cuts, steeped in salt, and plowed by a steamroller. He had literally no energy left to wait for her, and, as much as it pained him to move on, he knew it was his only hope for survival.

So here he was. Car packed to the ceiling with his belongings, a full tank of gas, and a half-functional GPS that tended to short out at the most inopportune times. He had never so much as set foot out of Pennsylvania, and now he was embarking on a one-way road trip to Arizona.

The rain pattered against his windshield faster than his wiper blades could keep up, and he cursed under his breath. He probably should have waited until the morning to leave. Tomorrow called for clear skies. But the thought of staying one more second in that asphyxiating little apartment made his skin crawl with frustration. Besides, he had already told his friend Emily that she could sublet from him until his lease expired.

No. The time was now, no looking back. He had to do this.

He leaned over the steering wheel and squinted his eyes, attempting to make out the lines on the road. But it was like trying to make sense of fine print through a hundred gallon fish tank. The solid sheet of rain acted as a barrier separating his car from the pavement a mere few feet in front of him, preventing him from seeing where he was actually going. And the water on the road reflected the beams of his headlights and blinded him, making it that much harder to discern the edges of the lanes.

"Goddamnit," he muttered to no one in particular. He knew that it was probably best to pull over and let the storm ride itself out, but the thought of stopping now felt synonymous with turning back. And that was something he would not allow himself to do. Not this time.

The downpour intensified just then, if that were even possible. The loud clatter of moisture pounding against the windshield was drowning out the radio, and out of instinct he went to turn up the volume, his eyes flickering away for only a second –

_WHUMP! _

He barely caught control of the steering wheel in time, having lost traction on the loose shoulder. Ignoring the racing of his heart and trying to keep a cool head, he brought the car to a slow and steady stop, the sound of the blown tire flapping pathetically in tandem with the rainfall.

There was a moment that he just sat there, watching the windshield wipers dance back and forth across the pane of glass in front of him. A flat tire was par for the course for anybody who had ever owned a vehicle. But for him, it represented a very precarious impasse. He was literally stuck in limbo. And whatever move he made next carried the weight of what could be the most important decision he ever made in his life.

Part of him just wanted to stay there. Screw the flat. He had some snacks in the back seat. He could live off them for a while. And when those were gone, he could probably find some nuts or berries or something. Then when he had exhausted his food supply, he could just sit and wait to die. At least he wouldn't have to make the choice between being near her and giving himself a genuine chance at happiness.

He thought fleetingly of his frostbitten body lying limp and lifeless in the driver's seat, a blizzard of snow and ice blowing around the car in a vortex. Just waiting to be found. Maybe even a bear or two would scratch at the windows, stomachs rumbling, yearning to gnaw on his frozen leg. It was as good a way to go as any. Right?

And then, his mother's voice echoed somewhere in the caverns of his brain, one of her heavily used mantras striking him through the heart like it were a bulls-eye.

_Inaction is the most surefire way to miss out on great opportunity._

"Shit." He rubbed his hands wearily down the length of his face, an almighty groan ripping past his vocal chords. Without thinking twice about it, he popped the trunk, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, and pushed open the driver side door.

The wind caught it almost instantaneously, and he was sure it was going to blow straight off the hinges. The intensity of the rain was sharp, like a barrage of needles, and he instantly regretted choosing to take care of the stupid tire now instead of later. But his mom's pearls of wisdom were on repeat in his mind, and he was irritably inclined to do as she said.

He pulled his hood more tightly around his face, but it did little to shield his vision from the torrent. He could not see two feet in front of him, much less attempt to change a goddamn tire in this kind of weather. And even if he tried, he ran the risk of some other yahoo losing traction in the exact same place and running him down like pancake.

He could call a tow truck. Have them take it back to his apartment for the night, and he'd tend to it in the morning. It was probably the safest bet, to be honest.

But that was backtracking. And he _would not backtrack_.

He darted to the back of the car, trying to ignore the fact that the puddles had already begun to soak through his shoes. It was horrendously unpleasant, but there wasn't much he could do about it in the midst of the storm. He grabbed the small flashlight from the trunk, smacking it a couple of times to knock the batteries back into place, and repositioned it to hold it to his mouth. He would need both hands to unscrew the spare and the jack from under the mat.

While he worked, he tried to picture how much better tomorrow would be. Or how much happier he would feel when he reached Arizona. It didn't fucking rain _there_, after all. Not much, anyway. He wouldn't have to deal with this kind of predicament again for a long time.

But that also meant he would never see Spencer with that stupid pink umbrella ever again. Would never be able to fix the kitchen ceiling in her apartment for the millionth time, which tended to leak during the big storms. Would never see _her_ again, rain or shine.

A sharp pang squeezed in his chest cavity, and he found that he had frozen in place, the jack in one hand and the other clutching at the tread of the spare. How could he possibly do this?

He was distracted from his reverie when the glare of oncoming headlights caught his eye. He shielded his face from the unpleasant brightness, watching in confusion as the car came to a halt behind his. Maybe some good Samaritan was stopping to give him a hand.

"Hey!" he called, waving his arms as he broke into a jog. "Hey, thanks for – "

The sentence died on his tongue when the driver rolled down the window. It was Spencer, and she looked just as waterlogged as he felt, her usually pristine chestnut hair melted into haphazard ringlets around her face and the little makeup she wore bleeding black beneath her eyes. He cursed silently to himself for not recognizing her car right away.

There was a brief moment in which they merely stared at one another, the only sound stemming from the rainfall pounding against the pavement and the steel body of the car.

Then, she spoke. Her voice was low and even, and he knew at once that she meant business.

"Get in."

He didn't even think twice. He was darting around the front of the car and diving into the passenger seat before there was even time to blink. Once situated, he instinctively raised his palms to the heat that surged from the vents. He hadn't even realized how cold it was out there with the crisp autumn breeze biting at his wet skin. But her car was warm and soothing, and a vast degree of his anxiety ebbed in her presence, as it usually did. So much so that for a moment he forgot why he had been on the road in the first place.

"I talked to Julian."

Oh. Right. Because of _that_.

His gaze was drawn to hers by the anchor of her voice, and he soon found himself lost in the russet pools of her eyes. They reeled him in, as they so often did, and his undivided attention was with her.

"He said that the rocking chair was yours."

The confession caught him off-guard, and he had to pause a moment to ensure that he had heard her correctly. That pretentious British bastard had actually told the truth. But why? What did he have to gain?

"Why didn't you tell me?" she pressed when he did not respond.

He took a moment to study her – really take a good look at her – while he thought about how to answer. She looked beautiful – like she always did. The inconvenience of being drenched did not change that. He was trying very hard to be a gentleman, but he could not help noticing that her rain-soaked white t-shirt was clinging to her chest in such a way that he could see the faint hue of her flesh and the outlines of – _things_. The shame of the thought immediately harnessed him, and he purposefully averted his eyes to the not-quite-as-transfixing glow of the radio display.

"Because," he said simply. "What difference would it have made?"

There was a moment of silence as they let the innocent question simmer between the two of them.

"It would have made all the difference in the world."

He turned back to her once more, and was certain that he was doing a poor job of masking the surprise he felt. She pursed her lips together in what appeared to be an effort to stop them from trembling, as if trying to stay oncoming emotion.

"Hanna's been saying since the seventh grade that you like me," she murmured, allowing a nervous chuckle to punctuate the end of the statement. "I guess I didn't really think about it much until the end of high school. But by then you were with Mona, and…"

She trailed off, her voice tiny with uncertainty. He was attempting to wrap his head around what she was saying, running it through his brain on repeat to ensure that he was both hearing her words and understanding her meaning correctly.

"Why didn't you say good-bye tonight?" she asked, opting to change the subject. He felt a degree of his hopefulness fizzle as the conversation moved on, and he offered a half-hearted shrug, his gaze fixated on some distant image that stretched far beyond the confines of the vehicle they sat in.

"I didn't think it would help anything."

There was another pregnant pause. The low hum of the radio could barely be heard above the clatter of the torrential downpour outside, and he was reminded of why he'd had to pull over in the first place. He had been so frustrated with the less-than-ideal timing of the flat tire, and now he could not help but wonder whether it was meant to be a blessing in disguise.

"Just answer one question," she sighed shakily, and the apprehension in her voice caught his attention again. He turned to face her and felt his heart melt at the somber smile she wore on her mouth – the precise smile she used to hide the sadness and pain she was actually feeling. Instinctively he reached for her hand, wrapping her cold, trembling fingers in his in an attempt to share what little body heat he had with her.

Her toffee eyes flickered to this embrace – then back up at him – and darted back and forth between his cobalt ones in a desperate plea. "Just one, simple question, and we can forget this ever happened."

He offered a brief nod and squeezed her hand, hoping to indicate that he would do whatever she asked.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as if gearing up for an answer she was not sure she wanted to hear. "Is Julian the person I'm supposed to be with?"

He knew his response immediately, but he bit his tongue. Was this a trick question? Was she asking him to be honest, or selfless? To fight for her, or to make a sacrifice?

There was no implication of either persuasion in her countenance, and he found himself thrust into uncharted territory. He could _always_ read what she was thinking. The sudden inability to look past the arbitrary expression on her face made him immensely uncomfortable, and he thought briefly of how much he truly relied on the fact that they could peer into one another's souls during even the most superficial of interactions.

He knew he should do the noble thing. Set her free and give her wings and all those other corny metaphors and proverbs. Let her be with Julian and be happy with someone who could shower her with all the luxuries she deserved.

But there was that one part of him – that sharp, tiny voice – that hollered wildly from the canyons of his heart and fought against the grain of his gallantry. And it was that voice, somehow, that he managed to zero in on.

"No," he answered at last. "Because I am."

And that was that. In times like this, he usually wanted to snatch his honesty right out of midair and shovel it back into his throat, pretending it was never uttered in the first place. He typically regretted being forthright and vulnerable when it came to his feelings for her – it was like exposing a raw layer of flesh to the ultraviolet radiation of the sun. It was often painful and anxiety inducing and he had always done everything to avoid it.

But not this time. He was tired of hiding. And he let his tone of finality reign supreme, his confession weighing heavy and shining brightly in the air between them like a badge of honor. At least this way he would know – one way or the other. And he could make his choice with all the cards on the table.

Nevertheless, the moment of silence that followed felt like a lifetime. There was a thin sheen of moisture glistening in her eyes, and he wasn't sure whether it was from happiness or disappointment, and –

All other thoughts were cut short. She had launched herself across the center console to fasten her mouth to his, and everything else went utterly still. He could no longer hear the storm, or the radio – the only sound he was aware of was the wild thrumming of his own heart in his chest.

After his initial shock he responded with equal fervor, burying his hands in the mass of curls blanketing her scalp and pulling her head as close to his own as humanly possible. She tasted faintly of coffee and peppermint, which he had somehow always predicted, and he felt weak in the knees. Surely he would be on his ass if he weren't already sitting down.

And then, she pulled back, and it was over as soon as it had begun. Her eyelids fluttered lazily in place, as if too heavy to lift in her dazed state. He was sure he looked equally as intoxicated, gasping for air and running his fingers along the curve of her jaw.

"I love you," he murmured. "I always have."

She chuckled a bit in spite of their magnetic proximity. "Always? Really?" she asked with teasing incredulity.

He squinted his eyes and pursed his mouth playfully, as if deep in thought. "Well, since puberty, anyway."

A sudden laugh erupted from her throat, and she suddenly could not contain herself. Within moments she was clutching at her sides, tears dribbling from her eyes, and even then she could not stop. It was an infectious sort of mirth, and he couldn't resist riding the waves of her laughter and joining in.

There was a brief moment during which it felt he had left his body and was watching the scene unfold as a third party. The whole thing felt suspiciously like something he had seen in one of Julian's stupid movies: a corny, romantic comedy that ended with some light-hearted, sappy, unrealistic portrayal of actual unscripted couples.

And maybe it was. Like that. Maybe their relationship was just as corny as something portrayed on the big screen.

The difference was, it was real. And it was better than anything any screenwriter could come up with.

**END**


	2. Epic Love: PS I Love You (The Voicemail)

_**TODAY'S PROMPT:** Epic love story from a movie or a book. _

_**MY TWIST:** There's a scene in PS I Love You that always makes me bawl like a baby. Genders reversed because I love working in Toby's head. Anyway, I'll just go ahead and apologize right now._

* * *

**PS I Love You: The Voicemail**

'_Hey Tobes, it's me again. Listen, man…it's been a few days since any of us have heard from you, and we're worried. We're here to help, all right? So put the bottle down and call me.' _

The words echoed for long after they'd been spoken, bouncing around in the caverns of his tired mind but finding no refuge amongst the deluge of demons. He cast them away as easily as the rest of the Hallmark sympathy cards that had been left on his voicemail as of late – with the bitter and purposeful touch of the 'delete' button.

It wasn't Caleb's fault that he lacked understanding of what Toby was going through. Not really. He was just doing what a friend was supposed to do in the wake of a tragedy such as this.

But the mere fact that he purported to have any authority about _how_ to handle the situation, whatsoever, only deepened the growing resentment that Toby had been feeling. Nobody understood. Nobody had been in his shoes. So how dare they act like they knew best? Like they had a strength that he did not, that would suffice to heal every open wound in his soul?

It's not that he wasn't grateful. Because he was. He knew that Caleb and the others had been reaching out to him because they cared, not because they were trying to assert their own opinions, or project their own coping mechanisms onto him like a science experiment. It was because they loved him, and they were worried about him. And the authenticity of Caleb's message was undeniably heartfelt and supportive.

But it didn't change the fact that he had this overpowering grudge against everyone around him. He envied, in a way, the fact that they had strength to _spare_ to console him, when he didn't even have enough to force himself to report to work the past several days, or to shave the woodland creature that had grown on his face.

How was it fair that they could move on, when he could not?

The unconventional amount of attention people had been paying him had done nothing more than push him further to the edge. The manner with which people's faces melted in sorrowful sympathy when they thought he was not looking. The hastened asides and muttered undertones to one another about the state he was in, cutting through the heavy air between them and further perpetuating the disconcerting feeling that he was some chronically ill animal in a zoo.

The kid gloves treatment that was meant to soothe and heal the crisis at hand only managed to remind him of its necessity in the first place, and their smothering concern was likened to being flanked from all angles. What they had failed to realize was that, despite their best intentions, they were making matters worse. Every hug, every casserole, every woeful expression succeeded only in putting his battered heart back on display – in pointing out its flaws, and accentuating the bruises and the blisters and the gaping wound that had been recently carved into its fleshy core.

They thought they were doing the right thing. But their ever-outstretched arms did little more than cause him to back further and further away. Perpetuate the ever-growing canyon that illustrated the vast contrast of _his_ experience and _theirs_.

'_Put down the bottle and call me.'_

Toby choked on a bitter laugh and downed the remaining sliver of whiskey in his glass, somehow both annoyed and morbidly amused at the depths to which Caleb understood his limitations. He hadn't been his best friend for the past ten years because of his _good looks_, after all.

He knew it was foolish. Of course he did. He had watched his father self-medicate for weeks after his mother's passing, drowning himself in bourbon and passing out in the armchair by the television. Looking at his own son with liquor-soaked eyes and speaking in what may as well have been tongues. Forgetting to eat and forgetting to shower, and more or less leaving Toby to fend for himself.

It was like that for days. And it did not let up until he'd started courting Jenna's mother.

The thought of that made his insides constrict uncomfortably, like his organs were preparing to burst from his skin. How could that man move on so quickly? How could he go from being the poster boy for AA's 'What Not To Do,' to finding room in his heart for someone else, even with all of the grief and the sorrow that filled its walls?

Toby couldn't do it. Not in a couple of months, and certainly not in a couple of years. Spencer was his wife for Christ's sake. She was his everything. The reason he woke up in the morning and the reason he could rest easy at night. The silken touch of her skin grazing across his put the air in his lungs, and the warmth of her embrace provided the only shelter he needed. The way that her lips fit so perfectly with his forged the makings of a dream, transcending the way that ordinary people experienced the world.

Any other woman positively paled in comparison, their character a pathetic shade of the seraphic presence she emitted. With her at his side, nothing seemed out of reach – anything was possible.

And suddenly, it was ripped away. Peaceful slumber had been replaced by restless nights, productive days by lethargic hibernation. The way that colors had once seemed so vibrant, tastes once so potent, sounds once so harmonious…it had all begun to dim in the wake of the ashes, the smoke screen lifted once and for all, the raw remnants unveiled and the puppeteers unmasked. Like all of the magic of his world had been siphoned away all at once, leaving him alone and defenseless in a sea of malice and discontent.

He was no one without her. His surroundings ceased to hold any meaning in her absence, heavy and omnipresent at every turn. The weight on his shoulders pushed mercilessly upon him, the pressure so unbearable that the numbness had begun to bleed its way into the fabric of everything that once made him human.

He took another generous gulp, this time straight from the bottle, and pretended as though the silent tears cascading down his face were nothing more than an illusion. Like everything else.

He had thought about ending it. About taking matters into his own hands. Best case scenario, he'd be reunited with her. And worst case?...Well, at least the pain would be over.

But he could picture her face, horrified and disgusted at the notion. She would have no qualms in voicing her disapproval, laying out some unnecessarily concise argument about all the ways in which his theory was wrong. She would say something about how he deserved to continue living, even though she could not. That she wanted him to find happiness – somewhere, somehow – to sustain him until it was his time to join her.

And if he was being honest, that hypothetical conversation was the only thing saving his life right now.

His phone was still clutched in his hand, burning hot in its command to be noticed. He knew what his subconscious instinct was asking. He knew that it was getting to be that time of night. And he both abhorred it and anticipated it, like the ambiguous relief of painfully tearing off a Band-Aid.

Caleb would have told him he was out of his mind. His dad and step-mom would be on his doorstep before he could say "none of your business," and his last remaining connection to her would be eliminated in a matter of moments.

No. Nobody would understand.

He set the bottle aside and pulled the threadbare throw blanket up to his rib cage – as far as it would go without exposing his feet – and lay across the length of the couch. He would have to at least attempt to sleep; and this was the only way he knew how.

His fingers were dialing the number before he had even situated himself entirely, and he raised the phone to his ear, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

'_Hi, this is Spencer! I'm sorry you couldn't reach me, but if you leave your name and number, I'll get back to you soon!'_

Her voice washed across him like the waves of the sea, cascading through his veins and forcing a tingling sensation into the ends of his fingers and the tips of his toes. His eyes burned and his pulse raced, but this was the most alive he would feel all day. And as agonizing as it was to rip open the wound and allow it to bleed freely all over again, he welcomed the ability to feel something. Anything. At least for a moment.

He dialed again.

'_Hi, this is Spencer!'_

The tears were flowing freely now, following the curves of the malnourished hollows of his once-lively cheeks. Their warmth was startling somehow, yet soothing, like taking the first step into a hot shower.

'_Hi, this is Spencer!'_

He gasped desperately for breath as the sobs began to rack his insides, tearing away at the wall for a chance to glimpse this temporary moment of humanity. This morbid circumstance in which he found solace in vulnerability, and gleaned some small amount of strength from the depths of his weakness – the complete and utter hypnosis that he felt when her dulcet tones were echoing across the fields of his eardrums.

'_Hi, this is Spencer!'_

It was paralytic, like a drug. It was his heroin. It was his morphine. It ran its course and stirred his senses. It forced everything to the surface that he had spent the day ignoring, and in that breath it wore him out and wore him down and mirrored some version of rejuvenation. It helped him sleep, no matter how disrupted and restless that sleep may be.

'_Hi, this is Spencer!'_

He felt himself growing weary from the effort it took to cry with such reckless abandon, and though he welcomed the darkness overtaking him, he continued to dial her number from memory, fingertips dancing across the touch screen keypad in a foray of desperation. He could almost picture her hands cradling his face, her mocha eyes despondent with concern and despair, the low hum of her voice caressing his bruised and battered heart as she made promises of better days. As she swore that he would somehow, someday, be okay.

And despite what everyone else said, she was the only one who could actually make him believe it.

**END**


	3. Period Piece: Attack on Pearl Harbor

_**A/N:** So I looked everywhere to try to find out whether alcohol was actually allowed at USO events, and I found nothing. So let's just pretend that my assumptions are correct, yes?_

_**TODAY'S PROMPT:** A period piece_

_**MY TWIST:** Toby is a World War II naval officer and Spencer is a military nurse. I've always wanted to write it, and now I have the excuse. So let's do it._

* * *

**Attack on Pearl Harbor**

Spencer Hastings had never formed an attachment to a patient before. She had always succeeded in remaining objective and keeping a cool head, even in the direst of crises. She had devoured all of her medical training materials front to back – some of them multiple times – and understood the potentially fatal consequences that accompanied losing such important concentration. It was sensible, it was logical, and she had always been adequately equipped to handle the sometimes-unsavory task of treating even the most gruesome injuries with the advantage of a steady hand and focused mind.

Until it came to him.

Petty Officer Cavanaugh of the USS Arizona. Age: 21. Height: 6'1". Date of Birth: January 12th, 1920. This basic information was accessible to anybody with a medical personnel badge and authority to be in the infirmary. But there was little else revealed about the man that had sustained injury in the attack on Pearl Harbor, unless one were fortunate enough to have known him before it happened. And because she was one of the lucky few, she knew that the arbitrary summary of logistical facts about his life did no justice to the integrity of his soul.

She had met him before, at a USO event that took place only days before the tragedy at the naval base. The live band had most people on their feet, the trumpets blaring the melody of 'In The Mood' at such a volume that people could not help but fall victim to its melodic grasp. The drinks were drained, the night was young, and the courtship was underway.

There were soldiers on one side of the room speaking in undertones, pointing across the way when they thought nobody was looking. The girls were doing the same in the opposite corner, giggling and chancing glances at the handsome strangers that had been chosen to defend the country. The flirtation seemed innocent enough, but Spencer was both perceptive about and privy to the dynamic – the men were discussing which girl they'd like to lay claim to, and the women were making the exact same negotiations with one another. It happened at every event, and ultimately Spencer always ended up consoling some poor girl back at the bunk who had been foolish enough to fall for some soldier's speech about making the most of the night before being shipped out to war. There was, of course, the rare occasion that the spontaneous rendezvouses turned into lasting love affairs – but more often than not, they simply consisted of a mutual need to satisfy unruly libidos.

He had been occupied by a rousing game of poker and a pitcher of beer, working diligently to earn the money back that her brother had so unceremoniously robbed him of. Those boys should have known better than to gamble against Jason – he had been dealing cards and bluffing his way through tournaments for longer than she could remember. And Toby Cavanaugh was just another one of his hapless victims, foregoing the opportunity to seduce one of the many army nurses who had been watching him lustfully throughout the course of the night, instead content on watching his hard earned cash slip through his fingers.

She had been giggling with Hanna about the cute boy playing the saxophone when he at last caught her eye. Even through the thick tendrils of smoke and the swinging bodies on the dance floor that separated his half of the room from hers, she could still make out the mesmerizing cobalt hue of his irises – such soft, sensitive eyes for such a strongly built soldier. She was much more accustomed to Jason's other navy comrades – the tough types like Ian Thomas, or Garrett Reynolds. But Toby Cavanaugh was different from the start.

He had wandered over to their table before long, extending an arm and asking her for a dance. Against her better judgment, she had accepted, her cheeks scarlet from the butterflies that performed acrobatics in her stomach.

One dance had turned into two, and then to three – and by the end of the night, Petty Officer Cavanaugh may as well have had her heart in his palm, for she was putty in his hands. He was kind, and handsome, and more charming than most soldiers were wont to be. He had bid her farewell with a gentlemanly kiss to the top of her hand, and it was the last she saw of him.

Until that fateful Sunday morning.

Two doctors had rushed him into the makeshift emergency clinic they had devised on base, sweeping a pile of books and paper work from a desktop to create a space to lay him down. He was hardly conscious; a large, purple bruise followed the path from his cheekbone to his jaw, and the grotesque slice down his temple would surely need to be stitched. But what caught her most by surprise was the puddle of deep scarlet that had soaked through his uniform, bleeding into the fibers of the fabric and announcing the severity of his condition.

Dr. Kingston, a young medic barely out of the academy, had torn open Toby's shirt to reveal the source – a gushing bullet wound in his right shoulder. He pressed two of his fingers against the puncture, reaching wildly for the roll of gauze and a pair of tweezers. They were only barely out of arm's length. He could not accomplish both.

"Spencer, his shoulder!" Dr. Kingston hollered, beckoning her forward. But for the first time in her life, she froze – paralyzed by the sound of whirring engines outside, of the screams of agony the punctuated the air around her, the hastened hustle and bustle of medical personnel running around haphazardly in all directions, attempting to save as many lives as they could with a severe lack of resources that would never sustain the amount of bodies they had admitted.

There was a thick sheen of perspiration coating Toby's forehead as the blood loss continued to cripple him, swirls of sweat and ash clouding the perfect porcelain surface of his skin.

And then there was the blood. There was so much blood. It had never fazed her before, and now she felt as though she were going to be sick.

Dr. Kingston whirled around to face her, just as startled by her hesitance as she was. "Spencer!"

She took a few deep breaths, barely succeeding in repressing the sobs rising in her throat, and joined the doctor at Toby's side.

That had been nearly a week ago. Many of the soldiers had not made it, as per the morbid predictions that had itched worriedly at her brain. And most of those who _had_ had already been discharged. Only a few remained, in need of more pressing medical attention.

Toby was one of them. He had been unconscious since the attack, but the doctors seemed optimistic about his prognosis. His vitals were otherwise in working order, and it was merely a matter of time until he woke up.

But she spent hours with him, nonetheless. Rather than returning to her quarters during the rare occasions that she had free time, she instead held vigil at his bedside. She could not explain her attachment to the strange man she had spent a mere couple of hours with, but she could not neglect it, either. She wanted to be there when he awoke. Wanted to see those pale cerulean eyes revealed from behind their lids once more, scouring their surroundings and assessing the state of the world. Those eyes were far too beautiful for their reappearance to go unnoticed – to not be seen or appreciated when the time came.

She was replacing the flowers on the nightstand when it happened. The soft, delicate touch of his fingertips brushing across her wrist – a feeble attempt to capture her attention.

It took her a moment to realize that she had not imagined the contact. Heart thudding wildly in her chest as the unexpected adrenaline kicked in, she turned to face his figure.

Precisely as she had suspected, the gentle kindness in his eyes was just as hypnotizing as ever. Their depths surged like the waves of the ocean, and she was sent to a place where, just for a moment, she could forget the horrors that had occurred in the Pacific only days beforehand.

He cleared his throat with some effort, attempting to push away the strain of his voice box's misuse. When he spoke, his tone was raspy and likened to gravel.

"Am I in Heaven?"

"No," she said with fervent reassurance, his words flinging her back into reality. She sat gently on the edge of his bed, curling one of his hands between her much smaller palms. "You survived the attack. You're going to be just fine."

"Mmm," he mumbled thoughtfully, pausing to release a rattling cough. "That's peculiar. I didn't think angels made it a habit of coming down to Earth."

She felt a blush rise in her cheeks as she interpreted his meaning, and reached forward to gingerly brush some of the sandy brown hair off his forehead.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Miss Hastings." His cracked lips curled upward in a feeble attempt at a smile, and her heart skipped an involuntary beat.

She returned the gesture, feeling the quiet stinging sensation of tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The relief she felt was unprecedented, and she could not fully offer explanation of its impact, even if she tried.

"Likewise, Petty Officer Cavanaugh."

There was a moment of silence in which he digested her statement, and then that tired smirk slowly vanished from his expression.

"How many?"

She knew what he was asking, despite the vague terms with which he worded the question. She pursed her lips together sadly and offered a slow shake of her head, hoping her response sufficed to tell him what he needed to know. The casualties were still being counted as the bodies continued to be fished from the ocean – and the numbers were on a grim rise.

His eyes traveled downcast for a moment, avoiding her sympathetic expression. "Oh."

There was another pause. She offered his hand a gentle squeeze.

"This was a very serious tragedy," she said quietly. "Those who have lived to talk about it should feel blessed."

He nodded weakly, but did not speak. She felt a pang of dread rising in her chest as she thought about all of the friends he had lost. Comrades. She did not know many of them well, but there were a handful whose souls she would mourn from her past – Ian. Garrett. She thanked the Lord that Jason had been flown to help train the new recruits in Georgia the day prior, and had not been present for the attack.

"You should know something."

His voice surprised her once more, and she was a bit taken aback by the way his eyes had softened upon her.

"When I was lying there – in the sand, waiting to die – all I could think about was how I should have kissed the pretty girl from the USO dance while I had the chance."

Her breath hitched in her lungs at the confession, and she was certain he must have been able to hear the way her heart was palpitating wildly behind her rib cage. Here he was: a hero who had barely made it out of that tragic battle alive – who had barely been awake for two full minutes – and he was intent upon making her weak in the knees.

She failed to suppress the smile that crept onto her lips, though she tried. She did not yet want him to know the sort of impact he had on her, or the way his attempt to woo her drew anxious goose pimples across the surface of her flesh. She was a lady, after all – she was supposed to handle the situation in a dignified, sophisticated manner.

But she could not seem to find the effort to care. He was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on, and he thought _she_ was worthy of his affections.

So ladylike upbringing be damned, she leaned forward to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek, a mere couple of inches from the curves of his mouth. Despite his prolonged hospitalization, she could still detect a hint of the scent she had picked up on at the USO dance. Fresh grass, faint tobacco, and linen. It only took her breath away that much faster.

When she pulled back, she was delighted to find that it was now his turn to blush, his eyes alight and curious about her intentions. She took advantage of his newfound alarm to smile flirtatiously, and, even though nobody else was in the immediate vicinity, lowered her voice an octave so that only he would hear her.

"When you make a full recovery," she whispered quietly, "I can promise that I'll give you plenty of time to kiss me."

**END**


	4. Supernatural or Sci Fi: The Walking Dead

_**A/N:** I totally suck at writing short things. Clearly. So the end feels rushed to me, because I told myself it just needed to be wrapped up once and for all. _

_**TODAY'S PROMPT:** Spoby in a supernatural setting_

_**MY TWIST:** Uhh I didn't really go "supernatural," per se. More like sci fi. Too much The Walking Dead, methinks. I offer you ample warning of the gore ahead. Also not as romance-y as the other pieces. More of them being badasses. But I tried a little bit of cuteness at the end. We'll see how that goes._

* * *

**THE WALKING DEAD**

Toby had never been much of an adrenaline junkie. He could care less about extreme sports that tiptoed along the tender cusp of death – bungee jumping, skydiving, and anything in between. In fact, if he were being honest, he had always rather hated the feeling of his stomach parachuting upwards into his throat and his nerve endings going haywire like a short-circuit. Because each and every time he came down, the nausea quickly overpowered what little energy remained, and he was reduced to nothing more than a dizzied mess.

He had needed to get over that pretty fast.

These were dark days, and worrying about trivial discomforts like a little stomachache was out of the question. It was the epitome of fight or flight, and it had become imbedded into his daily routine.

"Toby, six o'clock!"

He spun round with a brevity so intense that his vision swam for a split second – before giving his focus a chance to recover, he lifted the barrel and took aim.

_Click_. Empty.

"I'm out!" he cried, whipping the rifle around and using the butt of the weapon to knock his opponent backward.

Ian was on top of them in an instant, his crowbar slicing through the air with expert precision. Toby shielded his eyes in preparation for the inevitable carnage that would spray in his direction. The sound of the metal making contact with the spongy cranium was likened to a bursting water balloon, and it would have churned Toby's stomach had he not become accustomed to the soundtrack of their skirmishes.

"You were saying?" Ian inquired, a characteristic cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He swung the crowbar back and forth a bit, trying to rid the sharp ends of dead tissue.

If the bizarre necessity of this practice bothered Ian, he did not indicate it. He had easily adapted to the new situation at hand – much faster than the rest of them, actually. And he somehow seemed more at home in this world than he did anywhere else.

Toby, on the other hand, was still struggling to find his footing in all of it. The whole thing still felt so utterly surreal.

It was Day 33, and there was still not even a glimpse of a rescue on the horizon. The airwaves had been down for weeks, and the occasional signs of life were becoming fewer and further between. Rations had been dwindling rapidly, and ammunition even faster.

The abandoned high school that they'd set up camp in was serving its purpose well enough, a surprisingly exceptional sanctuary once they had barred over the windows. The steel doors and chained handles at each entry point were sufficient in keeping out unwelcome visitors, as long as they kept a body at each entrance to maintain guard.

The remaining food in the cafeteria had sufficed to sustain them thus far, though they would need to start considering methods by which to replenish their stores in a couple of weeks. The showers in the locker rooms still had warm running water, and the number of classrooms in the west hallway upstairs (to which there was only one heavily guarded stairwell) gave everyone in tow some modicum of privacy.

It had worked to protect them so far, and that was more than Toby could have expected in the wake of such desperate times. But he had known that morning, when Caleb and Ian had stoically approached him with the bare bullet basket, that the inevitable necessity for a field trip had at last come to a head.

And that brought them here – in the middle of the street, fighting their way through the undead crowd.

Ian still looked wildly pleased with himself, wiping the back of his hand across his bloodstained forehead. It was not his own blood, of course – which for whatever reason, did not even merit the batting of an eyelash on his part.

Toby nodded quietly in gratitude, but said no more. They had kept the mild ambush at bay, but there would be more. There always was. They had to stay on point and focus on the task at hand.

So without another word, the three jogged wearily across the street to their destination, the altercation having winded them significantly.

"This is the place," Caleb mumbled, gesturing anticlimactically at the sign lining the top awning of the humble brick building that stood before them.

The front door of Turner's Gun & Ammunition had already been busted open, as they had rather expected. The handle hung limply in its socket, as though somebody had physically ripped it out of the latch. Scratch marks paved grooves in the wooden barrier – clearly someone – or _something_ – had made a valiant attempt to claw its way through.

The three quietly made trekked inside, shards of broken glass crackling beneath their boots. The shelves that were once lined with hunting materials and firearm displays had been all but gutted, everybody in the small community having taken what they needed to defend their homes. The cash register had also been pried open – a fact about which Toby could not help but be morbidly amused. Cash currency was no longer a valuable commodity. Not anymore.

"Hello?" Ian called tentatively, wiping the residual brain matter that peppered his weapon across the grizzly pelt adorning the wall. "Anyone here?"

The question was foolish, really. Even if someone were available to answer, the chances of them actually doing so were slim to none.

"Olly olly oxen free," Ian sing-songed, checking behind a display case as they traveled deeper into the heart of the store.

"Would you keep your voice down?" Caleb grumbled waspishly, checking the clip of his handgun. "You're practically ringing the dinner bell."

Ian rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he replied, "My sincerest apologies, Pocahontas."

Caleb exchanged a deadpan look with Toby, to which the elder had a hard time keeping a straight face. Ian may have been a pretentious douche bag most of the time, but Toby could not deny that his lighthearted spirits did something for their morale, however crass they may often be. It was somehow nice to know that sarcasm and pseudo racist jokes had not died out with the majority of the population.

"All right, toss me the bag and I'll check the back," Toby offered. Caleb tossed it in his direction without a word, and Toby caught it easily by the strap.

"Remember, we don't want to clean them out completely," Caleb explained. "I'm sure we're not the only ones in need of resources."

Ian mumbled something oppositional under his breath, but said nothing more. Toby knew that he was a bit more pessimistic about the idea of there being other survivors, but it didn't change the fact that he rather agreed with Caleb. If there were people out there besides them, they deserved a shot at survival, too.

He meandered into the storage room, bee lining for the ammunition wall. He had just started pulling out the first drawer – the bullets he needed for his rifle – when he felt it.

The unmistakable double barrel digging into the back of his neck.

His heart leapt into his throat and his stomach flip flopped. He held his hands up in immediate placating surrender.

"On your knees."

The raspy tone of a very feminine voice surprised him, but he obliged nonetheless.

"We're not looking for any trouble," Toby said evenly, so as not to alarm her. "We just need to stock up, okay?"

There was a shuffling approaching from behind. Then he heard Ian's furious growl. "What the – ?"

"Don't come any closer, or I'll shoot him," the girl commanded, but the tremor in her tone was evident. He could practically hear Ian's eyes rolling around in the back of his head.

"Please," he spat in disbelief.

Another figure was rounding the corner of the shelves, a baseball bat held at-the-ready over his shoulder. His blond hair, which was likely once tailored to a pristine surfer swoop, clung to his sweat caked forehead, and his light green eyes fixated intensely upon Toby's submissive stance.

"Spencer," he said exasperatedly. "He's not a walker. Let him go."

She groaned with equal frustration. "But he's cleaning out the drawers – "

"He's not cleaning them out!" Ian protested. "We're here for a few things, and then we'll be off your asses. Jesus H. Christ. What do we look like, a couple of looters?"

The blond man was still eying the woman behind Toby pointedly, his lips pursed in a fashion that made it clear he meant business. "Spencer."

There was a long pause. Then, at last, Toby felt the cold metal removed from his skin, and he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Out of instinct, he leapt to his feet and immediately turned to face the woman who had held him captive.

He wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't what he saw. She was tall and slender, a plaid button-down shirt blanketing the sides of her tiny form, open in the front to reveal a grimy white tank top. Her jeans had been all but ripped to shreds at the knees – and judging by the sophisticated way in which she held her posture, he had a feeling that it was not her usual style. There was a wild mane of curly hair flowing from her scalp, and he could almost picture how it had once been much tamer before everything had begun. But it was her coffee-colored eyes, fiery and determined, that caught him most by surprise. One look at that soulful conviction, and it was little wonder she had been able to subdue him.

"You said he's not a walker," Caleb observed quietly. "Is that what you call them?"

The blond man shrugged wearily, a tired sigh cascading past his lips. "It just kind of stuck. What do you call them?"

"Zombies," Ian barked brashly, his emerald eyes narrowing in a deadpan confusion. "They come back from the dead. They feast on the living. Can't kill 'em unless you make soup of their brains. I call 'em like I see 'em, and _that's_ what I call a fucking zombie."

There was a moment of silence in which the two new faces assessed Ian in a manner that suggested they weren't quite sure whether to take him seriously. Toby recognized their expressions, because it was how he had looked at Ian for the first week he'd known him. He'd been required to get used to him fast, however, considering they had met in the middle of an ambush.

"I'm Jason," the blond man said at last, as if deciding to avoid Ian's outburst altogether. "And this is my sister, Spencer."

Toby nodded politely. "Toby. And that's Caleb and Ian."

"You guys got a camp somewhere?" Spencer asked uncertainly, her bitter tone implying that some degree of suspicion still remained.

"The school," Caleb offered. "You?"

"You're looking at it," Jason said, a bitter laugh sending chills down Toby's spine as he pictured how they'd fared thus far. How the hell did they manage? He had seen the busted door and the shattered windows when they'd walked in. This was no place to take refuge.

"It's not safe here," he said, voicing his thoughts aloud.

"Come back with us," Caleb agreed. "We have food and running water."

There was a pause in which Jason and Spencer exchanged a look, undergoing a silent conversation.

"How many of you are there?" Jason asked.

"Sixteen," Toby answered. "There used to be twenty of us, but…"

He trailed off, the horrifying image of his sister's throat being torn out beginning to creep back into his mind. He fought to shake it off.

"I'm sorry," Spencer murmured.

He turned to face her, and was surprised to see the candid empathy shining in her gaze. She meant it.

"We have the space," Caleb insisted. "Really, it's no trouble."

"Problem."

The four turned to face Ian, who had been silent for longer than Toby and Caleb were accustomed to.

"What do you mean? There's plenty of room," Caleb argued irritably, his brow furrowing in disapproval. Toby was certain that he must be wearing a similar expression, himself; there was positively no reason why they could not – and should not – accommodate as many people as they could possibly manage.

"Not what I meant," Ian declared, flipping his crowbar in hand and nodding pointedly to the back door of the shop. Everyone turned to follow his train of view, and his concern became glaringly apparent.

A single, rotting hand had crept its way through the crack, reaching desperately for Jason only a few feet away. Once he noticed the proximity, the blond man leapt backward instinctively. The single remaining chain that kept the door sealed was looking to be on its last leg, and it was only a matter of time before it gave way altogether.

"Behind the counter," Jason commanded immediately, pointing the baseball bat at his sister and then at the aforementioned refuge. "Now."

She looked positively offended at the insinuation. "But I can help!"

He whirled around to face her for only a moment, his teal eyes flashing dangerously like the torrents of a tsunami. "I _said_, get down."

She muttered a curse under her breath, telling him precisely where he ought to stick it, but crouched behind the counter nonetheless.

Ian was the first one at the door, and just in time – the chain latch had burst off from the pressure of the undead piling up against it, and they were barreling rapidly in his direction.

He hooked one right in the eye socket, flinging the body carelessly to the floor. This caused the next couple to trip haphazardly, and he seized the opportunity to take them out before they could get back on their feet. His boot swung downward to very literally crush some skulls, and that awful water balloon sound pierced Toby right in the pit of the stomach once more.

"So this is home sweet home, huh?" Caleb asked dryly, taking aim with his revolver. He hit one right between the eyes, and it, too, fell to the floor to join the pile.

A tiny smirk etched its way onto Jason's lips. "You should see the neighbor's."

Ian's guffaw was hard to miss, even amongst the moans and groans of the creatures reaching hungrily for the beating hearts before them. Toby was pulling his blade out of the decaying face of what used to be the mail man when –

_BOOM!_

He whipped around just in time to see a shriveled body fall to the floor behind him, taken down just barely in the nick of time. He took a second to appreciate the fact that his heart was still beating, his gaze traveling in the direction of the bullet's source. Spencer stood atop the counter, butt of her shotgun pressed against her shoulder.

"You're welcome," she muttered darkly.

"Last one! Got him!" Ian cried victoriously, kicking the limp body towards the others. There was a pile of about ten or eleven of them – more than they had ever taken out in a single standoff – and Toby found himself momentarily surprised that they had handled such an ambush. The adrenaline began to phase itself out once more, leaving him feeling ragged for the second time that day. He released a long, relieved exhale, trying to find his bearings.

"We should go," Caleb announced. "It's worse when the sun goes down."

The trip back to the school passed by without incident for the most part, and the two new recruits were welcomed with open arms by the rest of their camp. Spencer and Jason were shown to the showers as well as the cafeteria, both of which they took grateful advantage of. It was of little surprise to Toby – they had clearly not eaten for days, and hot water was a commodity that had grown to be hard to come by.

Caleb was setting Jason up to help keep watch, as per the blonde's insistence, while Toby helped set up rooming quarters for Spencer and her brother.

He had just returned to the room with blankets from the nurse's station when he found her tugging on the metal bars that lined the windows. He chuckled quietly to himself.

"They're secure. Promise."

His voice had evidently startled her – she jumped nearly a foot in to the air, her hand flying to her chest in alarm. After a moment she hesitantly averted her gaze, finding the floor to be suddenly quite interesting; she seemed embarrassed to be caught doubting him.

"I know it's hard to feel safe anywhere right now," he reassured gently. "But I swear, we keep a really close eye on things."

She nodded curtly, allowing his words to sink in for a moment. And though it was a waste of time to think it, he couldn't help but notice that the shade of pink that had risen in her cheeks was rather flattering to her complexion.

"How long have you guys been here?" she asked after a beat, approaching him to help with the linens.

"Since a few days after…well…you know."

He didn't particularly want to elaborate. And judging by the somber expression in her eyes, he wouldn't have to.

He took one side of a blanket and she took the other – they flung it upward in tandem, then lowered it flat to the floor. She knelt down and took hold of the top hem, folding it over a couple of times as if to create a makeshift pillow. Toby fluffed out another blanket to lay on top of the existing one, pulling the corners straight to line with the others.

"I went to school here, you know," she murmured, curling into a sitting position at the head of the blanket. Her russet eyes quietly surveyed the dark room, and he swore he saw a glint of moisture in their surfaces. "This was my French class."

His stomach seized up at the thought, and there was a brief moment in which he could picture the room alive with the hustle and bustle of high schoolers socializing before the bell. The image was gone as soon as it had arrived, and he was once more studying the barricade of desks that lined the wall of windows.

He looked down at her, noting the way that she had pulled her knees to her chest in thoughtful silence. He felt a pang of sympathy as he considered what she had endured since everything started. He quietly lowered himself into a sitting position beside her, hoping that his presence sufficed to provide some semblance of comfort. He allowed his gaze to follow hers, landing on a poster of the Eiffel Tower on the opposite wall. He wondered vaguely if it were still standing.

"C'est dommage," he sighed.

She turned to face him, a ghost of an impressed smile playing at her lips. "C'est la guerre."

There was a moment in which neither of them said anything. He knew that it was a foolish thing to be thinking in the midst of the apocalypse, but he could not help himself. She was the prettiest girl he had ever laid eyes on. The perfect symmetrical curve of her delicate cheekbones, and the full shape of her pale pink lips. The way her smile lit up the room, even if the smile itself were only a mere shade of what it had once been. If their circumstances had been anything other than what they were, he probably would have made a move.

And then, she did.

She leaned forward quickly, and pressed her mouth to his in a brief kiss, lingering for but a second before pulling away. It was over before he even knew it had happened, and for a moment he wondered if he had hallucinated. The alarm must have been evident on his face, for she laughed bitterly and turned her gaze to concentrate on picking at a hole in her jeans.

"Sorry," she said, though she didn't really sound like she actually was in the slightest. "I don't usually do things like that, but with the world going to Hell…"

He chuckled a bit in reply. She was right, after all. With everything they knew crumbling all around them, there really wasn't much point in following the social norms that had died along with half the population over a month ago.

He reached over to give her hand an encouraging squeeze. She turned back to him and offered another one of those half-hearted smiles, quiet appreciation glistening in her pretty brown eyes.

"It's all right," he mumbled softly. "I was thinking it, too."

The attractive shade of pink had returned to the surface of her cheeks, and she looked down sheepishly at their clasped hands.

After a beat he took his cue. He rose to his feet, brushing off the seat of his pants out of habit. Her gaze followed his movements instantaneously, her doe eyes wide with panic and uncertainty.

"Please don't leave," she begged. "I don't want to be alone."

Toby paused. There was a moment in which he swore he could see all of her demons playing out behind the beautiful, expressive, caramel pools beneath her lashes. He knew that the reality of it was that she had probably seen more – endured more – than even he had. He'd been lucky enough to find sanctuary at the school, very quickly into the entire ordeal. But Spencer and Jason had been barely holding their own out in the middle of the town, and had surely lost people along the way, as well.

So against his better judgment, he lowered himself back into a sitting position on her makeshift bed. She peered at him gratefully from behind the sheen of moisture that coated the surfaces of her eyes, silently curling into the fetal position and fighting to steady her breathing.

She seemed so tiny and childlike in that precise moment that he had a hard time believing that she was the same woman who had pushed him to his knees earlier in the gun shop. The same woman who had taken out a zombie that crept up behind him, barely pausing to bat an eyelash.

But she was human, just like the rest of them. She had fears, and insecurities, and none of this was what she had pictured her life to be.

So he didn't mind giving her a little extra peace of mind.

"Good night, Toby," she murmured quietly, allowing her eyes to slowly flutter shut as if she could no longer resist it. He wondered how long it had been since she'd had a good night's sleep.

He reached out instinctively to brush a stray strand of hair from her forehead. She had given in almost completely to the exhaustion now, her figure relaxing inch by inch. He hoped that whatever she dreamed, it would be something better than this.

"Good night, Spencer."

**END**


End file.
